


In Which John Watson Sharpens His Skills of Observation

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Nice Afternoon Wank, Argyle, Ferrets, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot, Smut, Voyeurism, What's More Relaxing Than Reading?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
<p> </p>
<p>    <em>"Medicine itself is a form of voyeurism."<br/>--Simon Wessely, The Lancet, October 15, 2011</em><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Watson Sharpens His Skills of Observation

**Author's Note:**

> _Originally betaed by fengirl88, but she bears no blame for this piece of pointless smut. I've now realized that in my head canon Mycroft and John are both voyeurs--which works out well if Sherlock and Lestrade are exhibitionists. Hmmm. An excuse for more smut._

John felt a bit irritated by his lack of privacy and control in his own flat these days. People constantly coming and going. And, by the way, they were always Sherlock's people, not John's. Coppers, witnesses, technicians dropping off evidence, potential clients with their weird problems and pleas for help. But today, at last, John thought he'd finally got a peaceful afternoon to himself to do some catching up on the medical journals stacked high on his desk. Sherlock was out shopping for a new computer. The man did so _love_ to humiliate the geniuses at the Apple store whenever possible. He might be gone for hours.

But instead of solitude with tea and _The Lancet,_ John was in the sitting room with both Greg Lestrade and Mycroft bloody Holmes, who had just invited themselves in to wait for Sherlock's return.

 _Okay, they can just sit there and stare at each other,_ thought John. _I'm not lifting a finger to serve them tea and crumpets or make small talk._

And he hadn't. He'd told them they could wait as long as they liked, but that he had important work to do. _Hmpf._ He made himself comfortable at his small writing desk, turning his back to the pair of them, assuming they would take the hint eventually and just leave.

But they didn't leave. And now, well . . . now, as a matter of fact, John didn't want them to leave.

Lestrade and Mycroft sat across from each other a few feet away from John. The doctor had quickly discovered that although he was facing away from them, the dark, switched-off laptop screen in front of him was like a mirror, revealing every move his guests were making. At first John paid no attention, concentrating instead on a mysterious case of osteomyelitis in the fourth and fifth toes of a rural Chinese woman, and noting down the details for Sherlock. Mycroft was quietly sipping the tea he had prepared for himself while Lestrade was thumbing through messages on his mobile.

But when John glanced up a few minutes later, he was surprised to find himself drawn into a silent drama playing out in the reflections on his laptop screen. Lestrade was, of course, slumped back into his favorite cushy chair, the one that he commandeered whenever he visited. Mycroft sat tall and stiff in a straight-backed wooden chair he'd pulled in from the kitchen. Good posture, he had explained to John once, is the clearest sign of good breeding.

But the drama John was now watching centered not on the men's posture, but on their feet. Well, to be honest, primarily Mycroft's right foot. The anything-but-minor official of the British government had removed his shoe and was tracing slow circles around Lestrade's left ankle, crossed comfortably across his knee. The two men seemed to be looking at each other--Mycroft with a deadly serious stare and Lestrade with a half smile and parted lips, as if he were about to say something, but kept deciding against it.

John watched Lestrade's eyes close and his head tip back slightly as Mycroft's argyle-clad foot slipped beneath the hem of the D.I.'s trousers and halfway up his calf. Mycroft's face and the rapid rise and fall of his chest now betrayed a hunger that made John's mouth feel parched and his own pulse race.

 _Jesus, when did this happen?_ John asked himself, incredulous. _Mycroft and Lestrade? What the hell . . . ?_

John considered turning around to tell the two men to take their little affair somewhere more appropriate, but . . . the pressure of his stiffening cock told him to wait. Wait and see what happened next. John picked up a pencil, pretending to scribble notes in the margins of his journal, hoping to hide the fact that he was transfixed by the couple on his screen, rather than the words on the page.

John heard an almost imperceptible sigh from Lestrade, eyes still closed and head tipping backwards. He saw Mycroft push his foot up Lestrade's thigh, outside his trousers now, settling gently into his groin.

"Ahhh. Fuck. Mycroft, don't . . . oh, god. . . yes, yes, please." said Lestrade in a low, pleading whine.

Mycroft was now smiling and circling his toes around the outline of Lestrade's erection beneath the khaki fabric of his trousers. Lestrade had opened his eyes to meet Mycroft's steady gaze, and John could hear the breathing of both men behind him getting louder, more uneven.

As Lestrade reached down with both hands to press Mycroft's foot harder into his groin, John desperately needed to shift and squirm in his chair, but he dared not move. _Do they know I'm watching them_ , he wondered. _They must know I can tell what's going on. So are they oblivious, or are they getting off on  this display?_  

John then realized with some embarrassment that he might possibly be the one getting off.

Without warning, Lestrade tugged at the argyle sock and tossed it across the room, pulling Mycroft's long pink foot up to his chest, massaging it, digging his thumbs into the sole, forcing Mycroft to drop his head to his chest for a moment and bite his lip in a vain effort at self-control. John felt the hairs on his own neck rise and a tickle up his spine when he heard Mycroft's high squeals of pleasure.

On the screen John watched Lestrade's pink tongue flick out to lick the tips of Mycroft's toes before his whole mouth closed around one, then two, then three to begin sucking them, moaning like some sleazy porn star.

 _My god,_ thought John, _who are these two?_ Not the D.I. and bureaucrat he thought he knew, surely? _How shameless_ . . . But now John himself became shameless, losing all pretense of control, pressing his hand around his own erection, hot and leaking inside his jeans.

Mycroft dropped the teacup and saucer he had been holding precariously in both hands. It crashed and shattered on the dark wooden floor. John managed only a soft, "Oh my," in response, as he spun around in his chair to confront the spectacle.

John watched, mouth agape, as Mycroft rose to his feet, with rounded shoulders and wobbly legs--lust momentarily marring his perfect posture--and climbed into Lestrade's lap, pressing his tongue deep into the Inspector's wet, eager mouth. Lestrade's hands traveled up and down Mycroft's arms, clutching desperately at the fabric of his jacket and tugging him closer.

John closed his eyes for a moment, feeling dizzy with anticipation, then opened them again, rubbing his cock harder, listening to the intimate whispers.

"I need you now," hissed Mycroft into Lestrade's ear, raking his fingers through the thick, silver hair at the man's temples."I can't wait any longer, Gregory. We've waited too long already . . ."

Lestrade's hands were shaking, fumbling with the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat, trying to loosen the perfectly knotted silk tie. Breathing ragged and shallow, the Inspector whispered, "I thought it was too dangerous . . . national security . . . Official Secrets Act . . . thought it applied to your arse . . . . I . . . oh, Jesus, Mycroft, are you sure?" Lestrade's head had fallen back again, his mouth open to release sighs of encouragement as Mycroft licked the copper's Adam's apple and pressed his full weight down into his lap, shifting his hips forward so that their cocks slid roughly against each other through their trousers.

Lestrade let out a howl and pawed at Mycroft's belt, gasping, "John . . . ask John . . . where can we . . ."

John heard his own name, heard Greg Lestrade breaking apart just a few feet away, and decided he might very well be utterly undone himself.

Fortunately, Mycroft remained in control. He was still a Holmes, after all.

"Dr. Watson," he said, pulling away from Lestrade and standing--still wobbly, but fighting valiantly to regain his balance. "Or if I may-- _John_ \-- I'd like to ask you to allow the Detective Inspector and myself to retreat for a short time to your bedroom. I will assure you that we will make every effort to tidy up afterward. And . . . _ouch_!"

Lestrade, still in a lustful daze, had just attempted to take a bite out of Mycroft's arse, chewing a hole through the man's trousers.

Seeing the shock on Mycroft's face and the grey threads hanging from Lestrade's mouth, John began giggling uncontrollably. He waved the two men towards the stairway to his bedroom. "Go on, the pair of you! Get out of my sight. You'd better get on with it before Sherlock gets home. I've no idea what he's going to think--he may kill you both!"

"Yes, indeed. Point taken. Well, I thank you very much, doctor. I think we will retreat now . . ."

Mycroft pulled Lestrade off his backside, taking his hand firmly and leading him to the stairs.

Lestrade ignored John, draping his arms around Mycroft and continuing to fuss with the necktie, murmuring affectionate curses and punctuating them with sloppy kisses as they climbed the stairs together, eventually out of John's sight.

John stood alone for a moment, staring after them, then realized he was going to have to take care of his own insistent hard-on now, and decided for safety's sake--in case Sherlock arrived home unexpectedly--to do so in the shower, where he could at least lock the door.

As he listened to the rhythmic _thud, thud, thud_ , and more of Lestrade's colourful curses coming from the bedroom above, John hoped he could draw out his own wank, enjoy a long, luxurious fantasy for a change. Maybe thinking of Sarah, or of Mycroft's dishy assistant, who wouldn't give him the time of day . . .

But no, dammit, he could tell he was going to come too fast . . . and despite his best efforts to resist, he was thinking only about Mycroft Holmes fucking Greg Lestrade straight through John's own mattress . . . and . . . yes . . . now John was there too. _He was slipping between them . . . and Greg was kissing him with that long tongue . . . and pulling him down so John was sliding his naked body on top of Greg's and . . . he could feel Mycroft's long fingers touching him, spreading him open . . . oh god, no . . . no . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .  
_

John fell hard against the tile of the shower, trembling, gasping, and finally laughing. He couldn't believe he'd just jerked off  with that image in his head. _So now, he was not only killing cabbies and leaping across rooftops like a madman--with a madman--he was gay too? What next?_

But he had no time to speculate. Sherlock was home. And he was stomping through the house, yelling angrily.

"I leave for a few hours and what sort of insanity takes over my flat? My brother fornicating with a half-wit policeman upstairs and my flatmate engaging in auto-erotic debauchery in my bathroom!" He began pounding on the door, screaming. "I need that tub for my ferret experiments, John! And I need tea, now!!"

 _Okay, then. Back to normal,_ thought John, with a grin _. Peaceful afternoons are overrated, anyway._

 

 


End file.
